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Rating:
Spirlingly.
Some god of groove must have kissed or at least caressed, on a roughly indefinable day at the beginning of the seventh decade of the twelfth century, the Detroit trumpeter Donald Byrd, a first-hour hard-bopper and a glitzy funkster of the second.
(At the crossroads between the two, between the pre-god-of-groove-kiss and the post-god-of-groove-kiss, Ethiopian knights make little moves.)
Lovingly & with a kick in the ass, of course.
The fact is, it worked.
The fact is, even admitting that a god of groove doesn't exist, Byrd came out ex abrupto (the year before the [add exaggerated adjective] H. H. of H. H.) with this nimble little disc, heavily syncopated and adorned with keyboards, sailing at full throttle and in good spirits, a cont(ro)unding object to be put on, in a rigorous auricular attitude of those who are silent and listen, to move every possible ass.
Sitting around waiting for the world to change is certainly not the same as shaking and convulsing it from within, the world's swaying ass: better to mark its horizon with a funky flight and do everything not to stay still with arms crossed.
Was he following the trend? Who cares.
The emperor (the Negus) of Ethiopia summoned a host of dandies, suddenly, jumpy & danceful. Whistling: come on.
Quiver for half an hour with them, you'll see what spirling.
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